June 10: Older Mr. Ives, a Funeral, Michael Mlekoday, "Genealogy"

...On one of those visitors' days, around Christmas, he found himself standing before a well-dressed, middle-aged gentleman, whose own eyes were sad--the older Mr. Ives--who placed his warm hand on the boy's face and kneeling before the lad, took a long, long look, making his decision.

That passage describes how Ives is adopted by his father.  Ives never knew his birth parents.  He was left on the steps of a foundling home as an infant.  No note.  No way to track his genealogy.  The only clue to his origins are his olive complexion and dark hair.  Ives spends his life imagining his parents were Cuban or Italian or Spanish, but he never knows for sure.  Yet, he has a father--a good, kind man who provides him a home, encourages his artistic talents, and loves him unconditionally.

I want to talk about another good, kind man tonight. 

This afternoon, I attended the funeral of my wife's great uncle, Melvin.  Sitting in church, listening to the pastor talk about the life of this man, I was incredibly moved and humbled.  Melvin was married to the same woman for 72 years.  He served in Europe during World War II and witnessed firsthand the atrocities of the Holocaust (a fact I didn't know until today).  His whole life, he supported the causes of veterans--marching in parades, selling poppies, attending Memorial Day services.  And he did all this with tremendous heart and humor.

It's a sad occasion when anyone dies.  Today, my wife feels like she's lost a grandfather.  I feel like the world has lost a great soul, in every sense of the word.  A person of great courage and honor and love.  I think the measure of a person's life is whether the world is a better place because of that life.

The world is a much better place because of Melvin.

Saint Marty salutes a true hero this evening.

Genealogy

by:  Michael Mlekoday

One of my grandparents rented a gramophone,
another owned three songbirds and a shot glass.

One slept in the day, the other remembered
the timbre of wild horses, tallgrass prairies.

All of my belongings are loosely related
to paper; some by ancestry,

others by weight or malleability,
by color or function or analogy.

One of my grandparents
was always connected to machines.

Another witnessed Mussolini
strung up like a bird feeder.

All of my girlfriends have tattoos
in languages they cannot speak.

One of my grandparents was a darkened basement;
another was a clothesline waiting for summer,

already exploding in white and wind,
shaking like a fist at the imperfect sky.

I have a kind of recurring nightmare,
only it comes in daytime when I am awake,

but like a dream I cannot control it
and it teaches me something about falling.

In the vision, my home catches fire
like paper does, quick and forever.

I stumble from room to room,
searching for something worth saving,

but cannot choose.  One of my grandparents
was a wood stove.  Another was an axe.

A true American hero

April 10: Stretched Out, a Funeral, a Nap

Lurvy appeared, carrying an Indian blanket that he had won.

"That's just what we need," said Avery.  "A blanket."

"Of course it is," replied Lurvy.  And he spread the blanket across the sideboards of the truck so that it was like a little tent.  The children sat in the shade, under the blanket, and felt better.

After lunch, they stretched out and fell asleep.

This evening, I am tired.  I'm sitting in my office at the university, grading quizzes, and getting more and more tired.  I am so thankful this day (and this work week) is almost done.  It's been a really exhausting five days.

This afternoon, I played the pipe organ for the funeral of a friend's wife.  They were married over 50 years.  He looked so sad and lost in the front pew.  I played his favorite songs, and my wife sang his wife's favorite hymn.  In a lot of ways, it really was a celebration, but I left the church very depressed.

Then, I came to school and finished showing Brokeback Mountain to my film class.  By the time it was over, I was emotionally exhausted.  That's the way it's been all week for me, and I don't know why.  Working at the medical office depressed me.  Teaching depressed me.  Now, typing this post is depressing me.  I may have to drag out my DVD of It's a Wonderful Life this weekend.

I think my mood has a lot to do with my impending job change.  After working in the same office for 17 years, I think I'm allowed to mourn a little bit.  I'm not saying my current job is perfect.  It isn't.  However, I love the people with whom I work, and I'm really good at what I do.  In some ways, it almost feels like my coworkers are treating me like I'm already gone.  They keep asking me, "When's your last day?"

So I'm thankful for this Friday, Saturday, and Sunday of respite.

I know I'm supposed to write about what's in my book bag on Thursdays, and I apologize.  I haven't had the time or energy to read anything this week.

Saint Marty just wants to crawl under Lurvy's Indian blanket tent and fall asleep.

This cartoon has nothing to do with my post, but it's funny as hell.

April 8: A Silver Forest, Brown Grass, Exhausted Prayer

The next day was foggy.  Everything on the farm was dripping wet.  The grass looked like a magic carpet.  The asparagus patch looked like a silver forest.

I love this description, especially the asparagus silver forest thing.  There's great beauty in it.  E. B. White understood how the simplest things in nature can be miraculous.  That's why he uses a spiderweb to save Wilbur's life.


After last week's snowstorm,  the world has been in a steady stage of thaw.  There're rivers flowing down the streets, and mud is everywhere.  I can actually believe this evening that spring is on the way.

I am exhausted right now.  Can't even think about a prayer request.   I have a neighbor whose 94-year-old husband just passed away.  At work, all of my coworkers are supremely unhappy because of recent management decisions.  On Thursday, I'm playing the pipe organ for a funeral.  I haven't touched this instrument since before Christmas.  My sister from Utah (the one with whom I don't get along) and her kids are coming for a visit; they're staying all summer.

Take your pick for this week's prayer intention.

Saint Marty is too exhausted to choose.

The closest I could come to asparagus...